Surrounded
by JezebelGoldstone
Summary: John doesn't figure out why Sherlock's height bothers him until they've been kissing every now and again for two weeks. Turns out there's a delightful way to take care of the problem. Johnlock. Fluffy almost-PWP.


**Disclaimer**: All characters and settings belong to Sir A C Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Story is my own.

**Author's Note**: As ever, eternal thanks and gratitude to Miyako Toudaiji, for taking the time out of her weekend to beta this story, as well as encouraging me to post it in the first place.

* * *

When they first started this, John had mixed feelings about the height difference. _Very_ mixed feelings. Because on a purely physical level it always felt glorious, but intellectually it almost felt. . . wrong.

Not that kissing Sherlock ever felt wrong. Few things had ever felt more _right_ than kissing Sherlock. And when Sherlock would crowd John against a wall, hands clutching at his face or his waist or fluttering over him while Sherlock tried to press closer, closer, and kissed him frantically. . . there was certainly never anything wrong with _that_.

It was just that Sherlock was so _tall_. The first time John realized that Sherlock's height was the problem he felt incredibly stupid. It was juvenile to be upset that his boyfriend (and even though he never said the word aloud, neither of them did, because it _was_ a bit childish for two men in their thirties to call each other 'boyfriends,' but John couldn't help the thrill that shot up his spine every time he so much as thought the word), so juvenile to be jealous that his boyfriend was taller than him. Petty. John was a bit shorter than most men, and Sherlock was a bit taller, and John had gotten over any issues with his physical appearance so long ago it almost didn't bear thinking about.

John was a _soldier_, for fuck's sake. He was a killer, and a healer. He was strong, and good in a fight, and brilliant with a gun, and was even considered smart if Sherlock wasn't around. There was no reason for him to feel so childishly self-conscious about his height; so petty and unreasonably jealous of the way Sherlock could loom over him.

This new thing, this kissing thing, (only kissing, nothing more and nothing less, and God weren't they both just chuffed about the pacing of the whole thing) had been going on for two weeks before John finally understood.

They got back from a chase, adrenaline still spiked, and rather than leaning against the wall just inside the door to have a good giggle like normal, Sherlock immediately bolted upstairs. Fearing he was hurt or upset, John followed hard on his heels.

The moment John stepped across the threshold Sherlock was there, a swirl of black silk and the gleam of his too-bright eyes the last thing John saw before his eyes slammed shut as Sherlock pressed against him, mouth insistent upon his own. Back against the wall John groaned, sliding his arms beneath Sherlock's coat to wrap around the lanky man, holding him as tight as John could. And Sherlock wrapped himself around John, standing so close he had to bend his head down and hunch his shoulders to reach John's lips, his hands gently cupping John's face. John's chin tilted so far back his neck was straining to meet those perfect, glorious, wonderful lips. John was completely enveloped in Sherlock, was completely safe and surrounded by him.

That was it. _That_ was what was bothering John.

_John_ was supposed to protect _Sherlock_, not the other way round. Yes, sure, okay, Sherlock did protect John, _had_ protected John more than once, and had saved him in more ways than one. But _physically_ it was John's job to protect Sherlock. John should have been the one wrapping around Sherlock, John should have been the one making Sherlock feel safe, especially in this, in this thing that John had done before (but not like this, never like this) but Sherlock hadn't. John was supposed to lead the way, to kiss him, to hold him gently and reverently and make him feel like he was the only thing in the whole world. It was nice that he did those things for John, but John couldn't help feeling that, somehow, he was failing Sherlock.

John couldn't decide if it was unreasonable for him to feel this way, and couldn't very well ask Sherlock for his opinion. So John went on feeling like that, struggling within himself every time Sherlock loomed over him to kiss him, and continued wondering if somehow he wasn't doing everything for Sherlock that he could. That he _should_.

Not that John felt this way every time they kissed. When Sherlock was being a berk and John took his violin or book or whatever he was holding out of his hands and crawled into his lap, straddling his hips and kissing him cross-eyed, then they were the same height and John didn't notice. When they lay on the settee and snogged lazily for what felt like hours, no matter who was on top it felt like there was no height difference.

But no matter what position they were in, no matter how many different places they kissed, either Sherlock was surrounding John like he could keep him safe from the world, or they were equally wrapped up in each other. John tried to hold Sherlock like he was something precious (which he was), and kiss him like he was the only thing that existed in the world (which, when they were kissing, was certainly true), and wrap him up in his arms tight enough for Sherlock to know he never intended to let go (which he absolutely didn't)- - - but they were only ever equals. John was never able to surround Sherlock with himself, to hide Sherlock from the world, to completely cut him off from everything except John and how much John loved him.

It turned out that the answer to this was getting Sherlock flat on his back. When they kissed on the settee whoever was on the bottom was always propped up by a few pillows and the armrest, the better to reach whoever was on top. But now, tangled up and completely naked in Sherlock's bed, all the covers kicked off and hands wandering while they tried to remember to breathe between kisses, there was nothing beneath Sherlock but the mattress and nothing over him except John and John just _knew_.

He pulled back for a moment, prising his eyes open to look down at the man beneath him. John was propped up with his left elbow next to Sherlock's head, his forearm under his shoulders and holding him sweetly to John's chest. His right hand was cupping the side of Sherlock's neck, fingers teasing into his curls. Sherlock's arms were both wound around John's back, one hand on the back of his head. Sherlock opened his eyes just after John did, and for a moment John couldn't move, couldn't _breathe_, because he had no idea what to do.

Sherlock's eyes were huge, pupils so wide and hazy his eyes were nearly black. His brows were drawn together, the corners of his lips turned down, breath hitching, and for one unreasonable moment John thought that both of them were crying. But then he realized what it was, what it _really_ meant, that look, and knew that it was showing just as clearly on his own face. And he couldn't help it, he really couldn't, he bent his head down and pressed into Sherlock's mouth again, but slowly this time, sweetly, kissed him until Sherlock was clutching at him like he never meant to let go.

Then John pulled back again, his left hand sliding beneath Sherlock to cup the back of his head, keeping his face tilted towards John. Sherlock's eyes opened, the same raw vulnerability in them, and John held Sherlock a little tighter to let him know he was safe, but didn't look away.

Eyes still locked on Sherlock's, John deliberately slid his right hand down from Sherlock's neck, over his shoulder, his chest, his side, his hip, watching every flicker of expression on Sherlock's face, every shift of color in his eyes. John traced his fingertips over the head of Sherlock's cock and along the length and gasped when Sherlock did, eyelids fluttering closed. His cock was too dry, though, and John wasn't about to leave him to get lube, not for a moment, so he reached for his own cock that was already leaking precome, more than enough to slick his palm and fingers. The moment his hand left Sherlock his eyes snapped open, seeking John's as though to reassure himself that John was still there. Something tiny inside John's chest broke when their eyes met again, and John had to comfort him, to reassure him, so he pressed impossibly closer to Sherlock's side and wrapped his now-slick hand around Sherlock's cock and tried so hard to not even blink.

At the first touch of his hand Sherlock groaned, stomach sucking in and neck arching like he didn't know what to do with the sensation, eyes never leaving John's, and John held him tighter and pressed in closer and stroked him firmly, slowly, doing his best to let Sherlock know through hands and eyes and skin that John loved him, loved him more than anything, and knew that Sherlock was weak and vulnerable right now and that Sherlock would never, ever be more safe.

John held him more tightly when the shivers started, let his eyes speak for him when Sherlock's hands grabbed at his back like he was drowning, and only broke eye contact once, to dip his head and tug Sherlock's bottom lip out from between his teeth, running his tongue soothingly along it once before raising his head just enough to find Sherlock's eyes.

And Sherlock let him. Didn't try to be brave, didn't try to act strong and unaffected, but let himself become twitchy and vulnerable and needy, trusting John to be safe and solid for him.

When Sherlock finally came (after what may have been minutes or days) he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. One of his hands suddenly flew from John's back to his head, holding him in place like Sherlock was afraid he'd look away. His eyes went impossibly wide and his entire body stilled, before he started jerking in John's arms, his cock twitching and spilling as John's fist continued gently pumping him, breath turning into startled cries.

Sherlock's eyes were still wide, his face twisting like he was about to cry, when John thrust one last time against his hip and came himself, vision remaining impossibly clear as he stared down at Sherlock.

They stayed like that for a long time, breathing hard and eyes wide, startled and unmoving, until Sherlock began to shake. His eyes slid closed and John just barely managed to prise his right hand away long enough to wipe it thoroughly on the sheet before he drew Sherlock's face to his neck, his arm giving out at last, winding himself completely around Sherlock.

John was aware of his own voice whispering soothing things, though he couldn't quite tell what he was saying. But he was speaking, whispering to the trembling man in his arms, holding him and running his hands over everything he could reach, kissing his hair and his nose and the moisture on his face, making sure every one of Sherlock's senses was so flooded with John that nothing else was left.

Eventually they both calmed down, and Sherlock went heavy under his hands, and John just barely managed to roll them about enough to tug the fitted sheet off the mattress (and to use it to clean them up before tossing it on the floor) and tug the duvet up over both of them. Then he had to wind himself around Sherlock again, and when had this happened? Before, every touch of skin to skin had burned, had sent jolts of wonderful electricity shooting through John. But now, _now_ it was like their skin was magnetized, and only felt right if it was touching. Anywhere their skin _wasn't_ in contact burned with an icy fire and John didn't like it, wondered how he would be able to bear it if Sherlock so much as tried to roll away from him in his sleep.

Not that it was likely he'd find out. Sherlock seemed just as stuck on John as John was on him, and appeared more than happy (he even giggled a little once or twice) as they held each other and kissed slowly and languidly as they fell asleep.

Just before John drifted off entirely- - - their lips pressed together, open and unmoving, sharing the breath between them- - - he allowed himself to think about _next time_. And the time after that, and the time after that. And he knew it wouldn't be like this always; _couldn't_ be like this always, any more than anything with Sherlock could ever be the same way twice. Sometimes it would be like kissing against a wall (perhaps literally; John almost grinned at the prospect of wall-sex), with Sherlock looming over him and surrounding him.

But that didn't matter. John didn't mind anymore. It was enough knowing that he _could_ surround Sherlock, that John could make him safe and treasured. Sometimes one of them would hold the other, sometimes they would hold each other, and John wouldn't have it any other way.

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End file.
